


(after) the dust settles

by Quillium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teenage Wanda Maximoff, Yes I'm bringing Tony back to life just to be Peter's emotional support and I have no regrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-06-16 13:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19651552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “I don’t—“ Peter swallows and swirls his cup a bit, “I don’t want that. I don’t want—to have that kind of responsibility. I’m always messing things up.”“You’re human. Everyone messes things up.”ORPeter, coping afterFar From Home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me, before watching FFH: we're not going to write any fanfic this time haha that'd be ridiculous  
> Me, post FFH: 'Kay so let's make a vaguely au-ish post canon fic along the lines of Ash that explores Peter joining the Avengers and brings people back from the dead with no explanation and--

The Avengers return to Earth two days after Peter’s identity is revealed. He doesn’t even care that they’ve been in space this long without informing anyone (they were, apparently, taking down the remnants of Thanos’ allies who were terrorizing the know universe) he’s just relieved.

“We’ll handle the press from here,” War Machine says, “We’ve dealt with worse. You’ll get out of this alright, kid.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. He’s too relieved to even be starstruck.

“You can come live in the compound,” The Falcon—or, he supposes Captain America now—offers, sticking his thumbs in his pockets. “Just if you want. It has more protection and you kind of are an Avengers, I mean—they’re calling you the next Iron Man.”

“Thanks,” Peter repeats and tries to make it sound something other than hollow. He feels sick, “I mean, isn’t Mr. Rhodes the next Iron Man?”

“Well, of course we’ll be training you,” the new Captain America says, “But you seem like you’ll be a good fit as the leader of the next generation of super heroes.”

Peter tries not to let on about how much the thought terrifies him and asks, “Aren’t you guys the next generation though?”

“We’re more the in between. The transition from the original Avengers to yours.”

“That doesn’t sound fair to you.”

“Trust me, kiddo,” Captain America laughs, “I’d rather not lead.”

 _I’d rather not, either_ , Peter thinks. “You’re doing a good job,” he says, instead, because how is he supposed to tell the new Captain America that he isn’t sure if he still wants to even wear the suit?

Captain America’s look softens, “Thanks, kiddo. Call me Sam if you want.”

“That’s too weird, Mr. Wilson,” Peter smirks, falling into more familiar territory, “I mean, you’re pretty old.”

“Oi!”

“I mean, no wonder you try to keep your hair short. Greying might not be a good look on Captain America since he’s supposed to be ever youthful.”

“You little snot,” Sam ruffles Peter’s hair, “You’ll fit right in.”

Bruce Banner finds him next. He does a shuffle type thing by the door of the room Peter stays in temporarily (maybe permanently if he and May decide to move, they still aren’t sure), and asks, “Anything I can, uh, help with?”

Not particularly.

“You don’t need an excuse to come in and talk to me,” Peter says, hoping that he’s not misinterpreting the situation.

Bruce chuckles, “Straight to the point, huh?”

Peter grins, hoping it’ll hid his relief that he wasn’t totally of base. “It’s an honour to meet you, Dr. Banner. You’re a Physics legend.”

“Well, I, uh, I’m flattered,” Bruce has a bit of an awkward smile, and he shuffles his hands together, like he’s uncomfortable in his own body. “I heard you were protecting Earth while we were gone. That was on us. We shouldn’t have left the responsibility to you.”

Peter shrugs and tries not to let on how weird hearing that makes him feel, “I handled it.”

“Yeah. This isn’t about your capability, just—“ Bruce fiddles with his fingers, “You shouldn’t have had to fight, I guess.”

“I’m an Avenger,” Peter pokes Bruce, “I would’ve fought anyway, sooner or later.”

“Right,” Bruce relaxes a bit, “Hey, uh, I heard you got injured from Happy. Do you want me to get someone to check on that?”

“It’s alright, I heal fast.”

“Right. But just in case of infection or something. I heard you reopened your stitches in the fight against Mysterio, too.”

“I mean,” he says, “Do you think I really need it?”

“No, you’re right,” Bruce sighs, “It was dumb. I just—I’d like to help, somehow, but the other seem to have everything covered.”

Peter realizes maybe this offer isn’t Bruce thinking he’s incapable of handling himself. Maybe this is just Bruce feeling guilty, trying to make amends. Maybe it’s an olive branch.

“Okay,” he says, “You want to do it or do you know any nurses?”

“It’s fine,” Bruce shakes his head, “I can just give a quick check up.”

It doesn’t feel like enough, so Peter says, “Maybe you can tell me the name of your nurse friend so I can go to someone I trust if I get injured on patrol?”

“Alright, well,” Bruce’s smile becomes more sure, less tense, “If you ever need a trustworthy nurse, I have a friend named Rio. She's from Brooklyn.”

__

“Hot chocolate?” Pepper asks as she simmers the soy milk, “Or just plain hot milk?”

“Soy milk? Just plain, thanks,” Peter shifts a bit on the stool, “Thanks for letting me play with Morgan.”

“Thanks for babysitting,” Pepper smiles a bit, “I was a bit worried that she’d been taking Tony’s death hard. I mean—it’s been almost a year and she still pretends to talk to him. She’ll talk to think air and when I ask she’ll say she’s talking to him. I don’t want to dissuade her but I’m thinking maybe I should ask a therapist or doctor just in case—just in case I’m doing something wrong.”

Peter wishes he had a god answer to give her, something reassuring or nice but he’s still grasping at straws and doesn’t know what to say. “It’ll be okay,” he says, lamely, because that’s literally the worst thing anyone can ever say in a bad situation.

“Right,” Pepper shakes her head a bit, “Sorry. How was babysitting? Fun?”

“Yeah. Morgan and I pretended to save To—someone—from a dragon who kidnapped him.”

“You can say Tony,” Pepper twists her hands together, “I thought she’d have forgotten him by now. I was prepared for that—for her to forget what he was like. But it’s almost like—her memory almost gets better every day. Like she understands him more as time goes on, instead of forgetting bits. _I’m_ forgetting bits.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, “It’s got to be hard, staying in the house that—you know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Pepper says, “It’s been a year,” She laughs a bit, “We should meet more. It’s almost been a year and we’re still talking about—him. I should get to know you. Just you and me, talk to each other.”

“You usually leave when I get here,” Peter says with a wry grin, “It seems almost like you’re avoiding me, Mrs. Stark.”

“I am,” Pepper says, putting on a posh accent, “You’re _insufferable_.”

They both laugh.

“How did you get her to sleep so fast?” Peter asks, “Morgan always takes a long time to sleep when I try to do it.”

“It’s a mom thing,” Pepper turns off the heat and takes out two cups to pour out the soy milk. “How much do you want?”

“Two thirds of a cup, please,” Peter wiggles.

Pepper slides the cup across, over to him, “Have you thought about if you’re moving into the compound or not?”

“Uh,” Peter swallows, staring at the cup, “Uh, yeah. I, uh—it’s probably the best choice. I mean, it’s reasonable. And it’s logical.”

“But it feels like there’s no turning back, right?” Pepper sips her milk, “Like you’re made your choice and you can’t change it.”

Peter wonders why it always feels like Pepper and May can read his mind. Maybe it’s a mom-figure thing. “Yeah.”

Pepper nods, “How do you feel about that?”

“Why do I—why do I have to feel a certain way? Can’t you just—not do that counselling help-y thing where you ask how I feel and lead me to an answer that was always inside of me and just give me the answer straight?”

“You’ve got this routine covered, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t give it to your straight.”

“You can,” Peter says, “Just—tell me how you feel.”

“Kid,” Pepper sips her drink, “You’re going to have a million people telling you how to feel. How you should feel, how they want you to feel, how they feel, why you should feel the same. But none of that matters—it’s about how you feel.”

“But you can help me figure out how I feel.”

“Yes.”

“…By telling me how to feel.”

“Peter, no.”

“Why?”

“Because how I feel isn’t always what’s best for you. I can make mistakes. I’m only human. And if my mistakes hurt you, that’s on me.”

“So it’s okay if mistakes are made that hurt me so long as they’re _my_ mistakes?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t—“ Peter swallows and swirls his cup a bit, “I don’t want that. I don’t want—to have that kind of responsibility. I’m always messing things up.”

“You’re human. Everyone messes things up.”

Peter shrugs.

“Peter. Do you believe that everyone messes things up?”

“I guess.”

“Do you think you’re special in some way? That you’re above everyone else?”

“What? I—no! Do I give off that impression? Am I snobby? Oh gosh, am I that one type of annoying teenager who’s always filled with hubris? Am I—“

“No, Peter, you’re fine,” Pepper hides a smile, “Then why is it bad that you make mistakes? Why do you need to be perfect?”

“I don’t need to be perfect, I just—“ Peter takes a sip, “I’m sick of making mistakes.”

“Why?”

“Because they always hurt. Bad stuff always happens and I don’t—“ Peter presses a hand against his stitches, “I don’t like the consequences.”

“Would you like a hug?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Wait, yes.”

“Okay,” Pepper moves over beside Peter and slings an arm over his shoulder, “What if one of us makes a mistake and you still get hurt? Is that okay?”

“I—no. I don’t want that either.”

“Then what do you think is the best decision?”

Peter buries his face in Pepper’s shoulder, “I don’t—I know I shouldn’t shirk from my responsibility. But there are smarter adults. Like you and May and the Avengers. And I’m just—I’m just a kid. I’m not qualified and I know that I have to be an Avenger but sometimes it’s just—“

His voice peters out.

“It’s a lot,” Pepper says, softly.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Pepper wraps her free arm around Peter and presses her chin on top of his head, “It’s okay, kiddo. We’ll take it slow. If you want to walk away, then walk away. If you want to stay, then stay. Just know that—the bad isn’t permanent. It won’t last forever, I promise.”

“I know it won’t last forever,” Peter says in a small voice, “I just wish it stopped being so bad right _now_.”

Pepper holds him a bit closer.

__

May touches his back and Peter’s brain shuts down. He scrambles backwards until he hits the wall and all he can feel is _panicpanicpanic_ swelling up in his chest.

He doesn’t know what—or why—this is happening and it’s bad and—

May’s voice, softly counting, and Peter follows to the best of his ability, clamping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose.

“— _Inhale_ , two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, exhale, two, three, four—“

“I’m fine,” Peter mumbles even though he’s pretty sure he just had a panic attack and he doesn’t even know what set him off.

May doesn’t confront him, just nods and jerks her chin to the sleeping bag on the floor (their bed packed up as they prepare to move to the compound), “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out. He buries his face in her neck, “Can I just—stay here for a sec?”

“You can have as long as you want,” May says, hands curling in his hair and one pressed between his shoulder blades.

It’s firm and steady and should be comforting but Peter just feels trapped so he shakes his head and whispers, “Can you not—not touch my back?”

May’s hand moves away.

Peter tries to breath.

When he’s done, they perch on the sleeping bag and May turns on _Treasure Planet_ and Peter’s heart calms down and it’s—it’s not good, but it’s better.

Better.

(He hopes.)

__

“Thoughts on this dress?” Wanda gives a little twirl, “I’m not sure if I like it. I like the sleeves but the body’s kind of weird.”

“It is weird,” MJ agrees, waving her hand a bit, “Peter?”

“I don’t have a good sense of fashion,” Peter says quickly.

“Yes, you do,” MJ raises an eyebrow, “Mr. Judgy.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to judge Wanda.”

“I won’t get offended,” Wanda says.

Peter shakes his head, “The, um, puffy sleeves feel a bit random since the rest of the dress is skintight. It’s really weird to look at in a not-good way. I, uh, think. That’s just my opinion. Which you can ignore. If you disagree. Because it’s just opinion. I mean, fashion is really subjective, it’s not an objective thing that—”

“You’re right,” Wanda interrupts him. She snaps her fingers and the dress switches places with the one she had on before.

“What the—you can do that?”

“I think I can control reality,” Wanda shrugs, “A little.”

“Whoa,” Peter says.

“That’s cool,” MJ says.

Wanda offers an embarrassed smile and asks, “Anyone want to go to the bookstore?”

“ _Yes_ ,” MJ says, “I need a new notebook.”

__

Pepper’s left a voicemail on Peter’s phone while he was in class.

“Hey, um, I know you can’t pick up right now, but I just—“ Pepper’s voice goes shaky, “I have something that’s crazy. I mean, it sounds crazy. I need to tell you in person. You won’t believe it but it’s—it’s crazy. It turns out that Morgan’s a mutant and she and Wanda did something and—I just—Peter, please call as soon as possible. Oh my god I—sorry. He’s going to—if you see him, _call me_.”

Peter squints. Is this an Avengers thing? Is this—

“Hey, kiddo, you miss me?”

What.

 _What_.

Peter looks up and backs up. No way. There’s no—

Tony Stark, standing in Peter’s mostly empty apartment, offers him a wry smile.


	2. to quit or not to quit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's past 2am and I have a dentist appointment tomorrow that I can't remember the time for. Don't be like me. Sleep before 10pm if your job allows you to.

He’s not real.

This isn’t real.

Peter needs to get out of here and—

He shuts his eyes and waits for a blow that doesn’t come. Waits for his spider sense to scream at him. The ground feels solid beneath his feet, though. When he backs up and he hits the wall and opens his eyes, he can see it.

It doesn’t _seem_ like an illusion, but that’s what he thought before as well and—

The illusion of Tony shifts nervously, “I know I probably should have waited for Pepper to call you and all but—“

Peter scrambles to pick up the phone and call Pepper. What is going on. Who. What— “Mrs. Stark,” he breathes, trying to remember how to breathe, “The, the voicemail, what—“

“I think we should talk in person,” Pepper says softly.

“Why. What’s—what did you want to tell me? Something—something normal or something crazy like someone coming back from—“

This isn’t real, this isn’t real, why is Peter acting like there’s any chance that—

“Is Tony at your apartment? Did he seriously go out of the blue without giving me a chance to warn you? Tell me if he did so I can murder him.”

Oh god. _Oh god oh god oh god_ —

“Tell me something only you would know,” Peter says, “Tell me—that conversation we had about Morgan. That her memory—“

“That her memory about Tony seems to be getting better? It turns out she can see ghosts and—“

“Stay on—stay on what we talked about before,” Peter says, “What happened.”

The maybe-actually-real Tony narrows his eyes.

“We had hot soy milk. You had two thirds of a cup. You didn’t want to make your own choices. You weren’t confident. It’s Tony, Peter.”

Peter manages to squeak out a, “Thanks, bye Mrs. Stark,” before he hangs up and stares at the actually probably real Tony Stark. “Tell me something only you would know.”

“I don’t remember you being this paranoid,” Tonys says. He looks worried.

Oh gosh. What if he’s real? This is crazy. This is _nuts_. People don’t just—people don’t just come back from the dead. That’s—that’s insane. This is insane. There’s no way—

“Please?” Peter asks because he wants to believe this so badly that he’s asking this even though it’s not scientifically realistic at _all_.

“I called the FBI to deal with the weapons problem with alien tech that you told me about and they were on the ferry but you thought I ignored you so you went and the ferry got split in two and I took your suit away as a consequence. But that was a mistake, because you needed the suit and you fought the Vulture without it. After—“

“You’re real,” Peter breathes. He steps forward and presses a hand against Tony’s shoulder and he’s _real_ and firm and when he presses his fingers against Tony’s wrist there’s a heartbeat and— “I—what—how—“

“Jesus, kid,” Tony offers an uncertain grin, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Peter starts to cry.

“Oh. Um. I mean. I’m not a ghost,” Tony starts to wave his hands, “It’s not—I’m not—uh—I am alive. Like super alive. Like from the grave. Heh. Actually I was a ghost for like a solid year there it was wild, the only person I could talk to was Morgan and— _god_ , this is not about me, you’re _crying_ —uh—I”m going to hug you. That’s what good parents do on TV and stuff, right? Yes. I hug Morgan. Hugged. When I was alive. Which I am. Now. Again. For the second time. I’m going to stop talking and just.”

Tony hugs Peter.

It is the most awkward hug that Peter’s ever had but he doesn’t care because this is Tony in front of him, real and physical and _alive_ and he never expected—

“I’m back for good,” Tony says.

He’s not. Even if he’s back for real, alive for real, he’ll still die eventually saving the world or being Iron Man.

“Okay,” Peter says, voice muffled against Tony’s shoulder.

He hopes it is.

__

“Morgan had a mutation that gave her the ability to see ghosts,” Wanda says, “She’s only actually seen Tony’s ghost but we think it may be the ghosts of people she was attached to or something like that. That mixed with my ability to affect reality and—“

They’re sitting in the Stark’s living room, bizarrely domestic as Morgan braids Wanda’s hair and Pepper curls into Tony’s side like it was made just for her.

Peter is playing with Tony’s fingers, an awkward, dumb habit that he can’t seem to break or stop. “That’s crazy,” he says, and then he can’t think of much else to say.

“We know it’s a lot to take in,” Pepper says, “We’re still trying to figure out what to do about it. I mean—I don’t think there’s ever been a case quite like this before.”

“No,” Tony agrees, “I’m special.”

“You’re full of yourself is what you are,” Pepper says, almost like an instinct, said without thinking, and immediately kisses Tony’s cheek.

“Thoughts, kiddo?” Tony glances at Peter, “Speak now or—well, you can speak later, too. Or hold your silence for the moment, I guess.”

 _Can I quit now?_ Peter thinks, _If I wanted to? Could I stop being Spider-man—stop being “the next Iron man”—and let you go back to being Iron Man?_

It’s so selfish.

What does he say? What can he say?

“I’m glad you’re back,” he says in a small voice.

Tony stares at Peter’s hands, still absentmindedly twiddling with his fingers and brushing his thumbs over Tony’s knuckles, and says, “Me too, kid. Don’t get me wrong, Morgan is perfection—“

Morgan giggles.

“—But I missed you guys, too.”

“You should kiss mom,” Morgan says.

“I should,” Tony agrees, and pecks Pepper on the cheek.

“And play with toys with me now that you can touch things.”

“I should.”

“And let me into your labs all the time to play.”

“Oh ho, I see what you’re trying to do here, missy, and it’s not—“ Tony stands up, Pepper pulling away, and picks up Morgan. He swings her in a circle and kisses her nose, “—going to happen! The lab is dangerous and you are…?”

Morgan sighs heavily, as though she’s been given the same lecture hundreds of times, “Still small and hurt easily. But I’m _six_ now, daddy. That was when I was _five_. And since you’re rebuilding the lab anyway, why not rebuild so _I_ can use it, too?”

“Little smarty-pants,” Tony sets Morgan on his hip and sways a bit from side to side, bouncing her a bit, “We’ll see. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“Too late,” Morgan sing songs and kisses Tony on the cheek, “Love you daddy, thanks for the lab, put me down so I can fix Wanda’s lab now.”

“Morgan,” Pepper says, fondly.

Morgan squirms, “ _Please_.”

Tony presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, “You don’t like being picked up?

Morgan heaves out a long suffering sigh in a way only six year olds can. “I like being picked up. But I’m making Wanda pretty first. Then you can pick me up.”

“Isn’t she pretty enough without the braids?” Tony pouts.

“ _Daddy_.”

“Okay, okay, fine—“ Tony sets her down and Morgan resumes giving Wanda crooked, messy braids.

“Thank you,” Wanda says graciously. To Tony or Morgan, Peter can’t tell.

Tony kneels in front of Peter. Actually gets down, bends on one knee, in the cliche proposal pose. “I know what Morgan wants,” he says, “What about you?”

And Peter—Peter can’t say what he wants. Because what Peter wants is selfish and dumb and Tony has a family that’s important, a family that he loves and should spend time with.

“I’m just happy you’re alive,” he says. Shrugs. Smiles awkwardly.

“You gotta want more than that,” Tony sticks out his lower lip, “Come on. A car? A house? Bonding time spent together? My secrets to always being handsome—ow, Pepper, it was a _joke_.”

Peter shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. “I’d like to keep babysitting Morgan,” he says. Then reddens, because you shouldn’t say babysitting in front of the one being babysat. “If I can. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Pepper laughs, “Morgan loves you.”

“Yes,” Morgan says imperiously and pats Peter on the head.

Peter laughs a bit, and that small thing feels like a step forward.

__

The Avengers Compound is new. Strange. Sleek and cool rather than cozy and small.

So despite himself, Peter finds himself sharing a bed with May that night, a ridiculously large bed with fluffy pillows and cute polka-dotted pillows.

“What a day, huh?” May laughs.

“Yeah,” Peter says.

May is quiet for a moment, thinking, and then she says softly, “Alright, kiddo, go ahead and spill. Something’s been bothering you for a while.”

“Nothing,” Peter says. He turns his back and buries his face in the pillow, “It’s nothing, May. I’m just tired.”

“It’s not that,” May says, “It’s been since your field trip.”

“It’s nothing,” Peter insists because what’s he supposed to say? That he doesn’t want to save the world? How selfish is that? The only person who seemed to understand turned out to be a super villain who wanted to kill him and a bunch of other people.

“Peter.”

“May.”

“ _Peter_.”

He’s crying. It’s just because he’s tired. Nothing else. It isn’t because of anything— “I’m just stressed.”

“You’ve been stressed for a long time.”

He turns around and throws an arm over May. Buries his face in her collarbones.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to talk about it,” May says. Her voice is soft, like she’s treading water. “But if you’re just holding back for the sake of my feelings or because you feel like your feelings are invalid, let me tell you that I’m not buying that and if you want to talk you should.”

“I don’t want to be Spider-man,” Peter blurts out, “I know it’s a cop out and it’s stupid and I love web-slinging and I like helping others but I hate saving the world and getting hurt and I know it’s irresponsible but I feel like I have to be perfect or else the world will break and I—I’m sorry, May. I know it’s dumb.”

He holds his breath, waiting for May to offer a weak platitude that she doesn’t believe in, to say _it’s okay_ even if it’s not.

May kisses his hairline and says, “It’s not. Never—never apologize for feeling like that. I’m so sorry for ever making you feel like that. It’s not your fault.”

Peter’s stomach drops, “May, no, it was stupid, I shouldn’t have—“

“No. Peter, if you want to quit, quit. Don’t feel like you’re obligated to. The Avengers can take care of things, you don’t have to be Spider-man.”

“But everyone’s depending on me.”

“They’ll get over it,” May says firmly, “You’re really kind, Peter. You always want to help people. And that’s great—but you don’t have to. It isn’t an obligation and it never should be. If you want to be normal and never even think about superheroes ever again, that’s fine. We’ll do that.”

Peter shakes his head, “I love being Spider-man. It’s just—being Spider-man comes with expectations that I don’t know if I can live up to.”

“You can. But that isn’t all, right?”

Peter closes his eyes, “Can we talk about this some other time?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Is there anything else you want to say or should we sleep now?”

“Sleep.”

“Okay,” May repeats.

And before he was just kind of hoping it would be but now Peter feels like it really will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this Peter is so traumatized compared to Ash Peter like please child why have you got such problems.


	3. Press (Causes Stress)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s another reporter waiting by the backdoors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was like "maybe we could add in some plot" and then I was like "or we could not" and I decided to go with the latter because I'm lazy. Hope you're doing well and are staying hydrated and well-rested! Remember that even if you can't sleep, just laying down a bit can help your body. Take care of yourselves.

He goes web slinging to clear his head. Stays up high—when he’s in the air, flying through the sky, he feels weightless. Like there are no expectations. He’s just flying.

MJ is sitting on the roof of some building that he crosses, waving a Burger King takeout bag with her head tilted to the side.

Peter swings onto the roof and grins at her. MJ’s like web slinging. She clears his head.

“That for me?”

MJ pretends to think about it, pursing out her lips, “Nah. I’m actually a siren and the takeout was my song. Now I’ll send you out to drown.”

Peter rolls his eyes and laughs a bit as he sits down on the railing, legs dangling over the side.

“Please get down, I’m feeling nauseous just looking at you,” MJ mutters, taking a few steps back from the edge and sitting down despite the railing.

“You’re no fun,” Peter pouts but obliges, flipping over and perching next to her.

“I’ll manage,” MJ says. She squints when he kisses her cheek, “Gross. Did you brush your teeth?”

“I’m about to eat.”

“Disgusting,” MJ kisses him back, though, so there’s that. A quick blink-and-you-miss it peck on his cheek but still. It counts.

“Sappy,” Peter teases her.

“You’re infecting me.”

“Still counts.”

She rolls her eyes and he grins.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Checking on you,” MJ pops a fry in her mouth, “Been a while since we met up outside, what with the whole paparazzi catching you in public thing. Don’t get me wrong, indoor dates are nice, but I was starting to associate you with a lack of sun and that’s just a weird pavlovian thing.”

“That’s a pretty convoluted reason to stay on a rooftop waiting for me.”

“Well, I’m a convoluted person.”

“You sure you didn’t just want to see me?”

“No. That involves feelings.”

“You have feelings for me.”

MJ goes squinty, the way that she does when she’s caught and doesn’t want to admit it. “I can control my feelings.”

“You looove me.”

“I’m dating you.”

“So you admit it.”

“Yeah, well,” MJ grumbles, “I love you and stuff.”

Peter grins, “Love you, too.”

“High school couples are statistically unlikely to stay together permanently.”

“Can’t we be outliers?”

“We could. But we’re more likely to not.”

“Are you saying you want to break up or are you just trying to avoid feeling embarrassed about admitting that you love me?”

“Shut up and eat your burger.”

He laughs and rests his head against her shoulder, “What have you been doing lately? Ned and Betty said you’ve been working on some project during your free time in class.”

“Nothing much,” MJ shrugs, jostling his head a bit, “Just a text-based choose your own adventure type game. I decided I ought to do something for fun and stress relief instead of just doing things that would make me successful.”

“You’re so brilliant,” Peter says.

“That’s the least brilliant thing about me, Peter.”

“Because all of you is brilliant.”

“Shut up and eat your fries.”

__

They’re on their way to a press conference when Peter has his first panic attack which, really, just about sums up how dumb and bad his luck is.

It’s just him and Happy driving out, since May is meeting with Pepper and Tony while Peter—or rather, Spider-man—talks about the future of the Avengers with the rest of the current Avengers.

Happy is driving silently and Peter is mentally going over the schedule because he’s been freaking out internally over this press conference for _weeks_ and he can’t screw this up, especially know that everyone knows who he is.

He doesn’t think there’s any trigger for it, but Peter is sleep deprived and stressed and the next thing he knows the car is pulling over as he tries to catch his breath, eyes squeezing shut and trying to stay quiet so Happy doesn’t realize something’s wrong.

Of course Happy realizes something’s wrong. There are only two people in the car. One of them’s hyperventilating, and the other’s Happy.

“Of all of Tony’s traits,” Happy mutters, “I was hoping you wouldn’t get this one. Alright, kid, focus on my voice, alright? Focus on how the car seat feels beneath you. How’s the texture? Rough? Smooth? We’re going to regulate your breathing, okay? Breathe in, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four—“

“Sorry,” Peter whispers once his breath evens out.

“It’s nothing to be sorry for, kid,” Happy says quietly.

“Right. But it’s just—“

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, kid,” Happy repeats, a bit more firmly.

Peter leans forward, presses his face into Happy’s shoulder and whispers, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Happy puts a hand to the back of Peter’s head, firm but loose enough that if he wanted to move his head, he knows he can. “We’ll wait here a bit, alright? I can call the Avengers to postpone the press conference a little.”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He takes in a shuddering breath, breathes, this is solid, this is _real_. “I can be not-okay after the press conference,” Peter says, pulling back.

Happy stays crouched in front of Peter, “You don’t have to be.”

“I can’t put it off forever.”

Happy squeezes Peter’s hand and says, “Alright, kid.”

“Alright,” Peter repeats numbly, “Can we come back to this later? Like… not this week?”

“Sure,” Happy agrees easily, “Whatever you want.”

Peter traces a hand against the collar of Happy’s suit and nods.

They go to the press conference, Peter does his job, and when they get back in the car, all Happy says is, “Good job out there.”

Peter knows they’ll have to come back to this later. That Happy will bring it up later.

But for now, all he answers is, “Thanks.”

__

Peter thinks he’s going to throw up.

There are five news vans waiting outside of his school, and he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“You’re so weird, Penis,” Flash grumbles, sidling up next to him, “Most people like attention.”

“I’m not you, Flash,” Peter hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

“Clearly,” Flash rolls his eyes and then jerks his chin, “Come on. MJ’s in the library waiting for you. She’s going to help you make a grand escape or whatever.”

Peter frowns at Flash, “This isn’t a trick or something, right?”

“Look, I don’t like you, but Spider-man’s cool,” Flash squints at the news reporters, “I’ll go distract them with Betty while you and MJ sneak out.”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“Like I said, Spider-man’s cool.”

“So you’re helping me because I’m Spider-man.”

“I literally _just_ said that. This is a one time thing, though. Don’t expect it again, Penis.”

Peter grins a bit and leans against the locker, “You’re being pretty nice, Flash.”

Flash rolls his eyes and shoves Peter toward the stairs, “Don’t make me regret this. You can, like, show up on one of my livestreams as Spider-man to thank me if you’re comfortable with that or something.”

“I could,” Peter agrees brightly.

“Don’t force yourself,” Flash grumbles.

Peter laughs and makes his way to the library. Maybe Flash isn’t so bad after all.

Like he said, MJ’s waiting in the library by the Physics books, reading _The Elegant Universe_.

“Good book?” he slings his arms over her shoulders and pecks her on the cheek.

“Haven’t read it yet,” MJ says, pushing his face away, “Gross. PDA is unnecessary.”

“It’s not meant to be PDA,” Peter pouts, “It’s just my love language. Are you denying me from expressing my love for you in the way that’s most comfortable to me?”

MJ rolls her eyes, “I’m not here to snog, I’m here to get you out.”

“Yeah, Flash told me.”

“Of course he did,” MJ smirks as they move to the library entrance. She checks out the book and tucks it into her bag.

“You didn’t do anything like bribe him, did you?”

“I just reminded him that if he wanted friends he didn’t need to be such a jerk.”

Peter laughs, “Flash doesn’t want to be friends with me.”

“Flash wants friends. Period. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Peter links his hand in her’s, “I don’t understand you.”

“Good, I’m a mess.”

He laughs.

“We’re going out back,” MJ tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It poofs out a second later, “Since we were planning to go to Ned’s place by bus, Ned and I figured it’d be easier if you and he went to my place, since it’s closer to the school.”

“So it’d be harder for the reporters to catch us,” Peter surmises.

“Exactly,” MJ checks her watch, “We’re going to go out from one of the back doors.”

There’s another reporter waiting by the backdoors.

MJ pulls Peter to the side before the reporter catches sight of them and mutters, “Alright, change of plans. Ned is going to buy a wig for you and _then_ we’ll head out.”

“Wait, is Ned already at your house?”

“Yeah, keep up. There’s a hairdresser nearby, they have a few practice wigs that we can borrow.”

“What if they say no?”

MJ tosses Peter a smirk, “They’ll say yes.”

“You make it sound so ominous.”

“Good,” MJ checks her phone, “Flash is good at this. We should recruit him.”

“As what?”

“As a friend,” MJ raises an eyebrow, “What did you think I meant?”

“As a piece for your plans to become president.”

“Hm, he’s not stable enough for that yet. Too volatile.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means we’re teenagers,” MJ leans down to peck him on the cheek, “Ned should be coming in soon.”

Ned comes skidding in from one of the side doors, “Got a wig,” he holds up a bright blond, Justin Bieber style wig.

Peter winces, “Thanks, Ned.”

“No problem, man,” Ned claps him on the back, “This is actually pretty cool, you know? Sneaking out like spies—“

“Being hounded by unwanted paparazzi,” MJ slides on a pair of sunglasses and braids her hair back.

“It is kind of cool,” Peter shrugs, “But only if we get away with this.”

“We will,” MJ says confidently.

And somehow, miraculously, they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's alright if you screw up, no matter how hard. Take a breath, regain your strength, and then when you're ready, you can get going again. No rush. There's no endgame or goal that must be reached. When you keep going in life, it's to see the new sights, experience wonderful and exciting things. And if you don't have the energy to be excited or love these new things, then you can take a break. You aren't being lazy by staying still. You're just taking the time to appreciate what is right in front of you.


	4. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the rules, you can't read this chapter until you drink some water.

Some days, Peter is hyperaware of what he is. Bone and brittle and flesh and blood and dead skin cells clinging to a somehow living body.

He’s hyperaware of how alive he is—how strange that is.

It isn’t that he expected to be dead. Or at least—he thinks it isn’t that. He’s not entirely sure, because he’s not too sure if he expected to be alive, either. He’s died once, after all.

He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s thought he’d die. The warehouse, rubble and concrete and metal on him. Titan, ash and dust and watching himself fade, watching himself die. Mysterio, the train, it’s squeal and the _thud_ of its impact, Peter’s bloody fingers desperately clinging to the train’s side so he’d survive.

He’s so sick of almost-dying. So sick of the fear that swallows his chest and fills his throat until he wants to vomit and cry and knows he can’t do either.

Peter watches Tony work through his holograms, humming and offering FRIDAY modifications or orders to scrap the whole thing, and his breath catches in his throat as he wonders if this is what he’ll have to become.

Something more—or maybe less—than human. Less than—more than?—bone and brittle and flesh and all these things that he knows he is, knows for sure.

After all, Tony is Iron Man. Sure, he’s flesh and bone, but he’s also a cool voice and fast calculations and he’s gold-titanium alloy and nanotech.

Tony _is_ Iron Man.

Peter isn’t—Peter isn’t sure how much he wants to be Spider-man. To let it define him so.

Being a hero was cool and awesome but now he can’t remember that, remember how that felt, all he can remember when he looks at the suit is fear and panic and trying desperately not to break into a thousand little pieces.

He remembers summoning excitement while building his suit—remembers thinking _I can do this_ on the jet, AC/DC blaring in the background—but he can’t summon that feeling anymore. All he can feel is a sticky sort of dread that sits in his throat and won’t let him breathe.

“Kid?” Tony snaps his fingers in front of Peter’s face, once, twice, and he grins, sharp and bright and alive. “You looked like you were spacing out.”

“I’m fine,” Peter says quickly. He offers a wry smile, “What’s up? Do I get to see what you were playing with?”

“Of course, of course,” Tony waves him over, thrumming with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pulls up a few holograms and sends them around the workshop, “It’s just a little thing, to ease me back in, you know? I want to make a simulation for Morgan, something with holograms, audio, the works, put her in a pretend world like Lord of the Rings. If only I could figure out how to make it solid, that’d be everything, huh?”

“Something solid?” Peter repeats.

“Yeah,” Tony squints, “I’ll figure it out. Just gotta tinker with it a bit more.”

“I know… I know a way to make it a bit more solid,” the words come stumbling out before Peter can think, before he reminds himself that one look at Beck’s technology will probably send him in a downward spiral.

“Oh? Outsmarting me already, kid? Was planning to ship you off to MIT or Caltech before you started doing that.”

“I mean,” Peter reddens, “It’s not _exact_. More just—a basis to build off of. When I was fighting Mysterio, he used drones to make his illusions seem real. So if I reached out, I’d feel the drones. If you could maybe shrink the drones and program them in a way that maybe changed texture or moved quickly according to a certain programming sequence—maybe that would work?”

“Brilliant, kiddo,” Tony ruffles his hair.

Peter tries to smile. He’s not sure if he pulls it off.

“Want to help?”

Does he?

Peter tries to think beyond the instinctive _okay_.

“Yes,” he says, and is surprised when it feels honest, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Great,” Tony beams, “We’ll have to first look at the blueprints for my drones and look at what we can discard—since we’re changing their purpose, we’ll have a lot of stuff to change, we’re really only keeping the movement part of them, everything else can go—“

And Peter doesn’t know how long it will last, but in that moment, next to Tony, he feels undeniably, perfectly alive.

(And maybe it won’t last, but for the moment, it’s enough.)

__

“Tea?” MJ asks, standing on her tiptoes as she rifles through Peter’s cupboards.

“Second shelf by the fridge,” Peter walks up the wall and sits cross legged on the ceiling, “You okay with peach tea?”

“Fruit tea is disgusting,” MJ hops onto his counter, “You should invest in black tea or better yet, herbal.”

“We do. Usually. But tomorrow’s grocery day so we thought we’d just put it off a bit.”

“A grave mistake,” MJ shuts the cupboards and walks into the living room. She stands directly below Peter, a sign of blind trust. Or at least, it feels like it. But MJ never seems to do anything blind. She’d rather walk away than forward if she can’t see what’s in front of her.

“Should I come down?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t mind.”

“You mind going out?”

“Why?”

“Grocery shopping.”

“That’s tomorrow. With May.”

“Tea shopping.”

Peter unsticks from the ceiling and flips down in front of MJ, “Okay.”

“Of course,” MJ smirks and pulls her hair into a braid, “You didn’t have any other plans for the day, did you?”

“Just spending the day with you,” Peter bumps his shoulder against MJ’s.

“Sappy.”

“Cute.”

“Stupid.”

“Uncalled for.”

“Sorry,” MJ kisses his cheek, “My bad.”

“You want tea this badly?”

“To kiss you? I don’t know. You tell me, is it worth it?”

“Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

“Alright, fine, it was.”

MJ casts him a wry smile and locks the apartment door behind them, “What happened to all your tea?”

“Wanda, Cassie and Morgan came over for babysitting,” Peter squints, “Wait, I’m in my pyjamas.”

“Do you want to turn back and change?”

“I’m wearing _Hello Kitty pants_.”

“So you want to change?”

“No, it’s fine.”

MJ hides a smile behind her hand.

“You could have reminded me to change, you know.”

“Do you mind? Do you really care about the fact that people are going to see you in these pants?”

“I care about the fact that I need to change my pyjamas since these are going to get dirty from wearing them outside.”

“They needed a good wash anyways.”

“I’ve only been wearing them for two weeks.”

“Two weeks, then a good wash. Sounds right to me.”

“How often do you wash your pyjamas?”

“Once every two weeks. Keep up, Parker.”

“My bad,” Peter poses in front of the automatic doors and grins as they slide open.

“Dork.”

“Just having a little fun,” Peter weaves through the aisles, “Mind if we get some dessert tofu?”

“Do you have any red beans at home?”

“No? What does that have to do with it?”

“You don’t have dessert tofu with red beans?”

“No? I just eat it straight.”

MJ ruffles Peter’s hair, “Fair enough. Would you _like_ to try it with red beans?”

“Why?”

“Why so suspicious? Because it tastes good, doofendork.”

“Alright,” Peter takes MJ’s hand and swings their arms as they make their way to the tea, “Dessert tofu, red beans and herbal tea.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” MJ teases.

“Because I’m wonderful,” Peter agrees.

She laughs and he grins back. They get the red beans, tea (MJ spends a while thinking about it and after a few minutes, asks Peter why he isn’t telling her to hurry up. He shrugs and tells her that it’s a hard decision. MJ looks torn between kissing him and calling him an idiot) and dessert tofu (“Don’t just get one,” MJ says, “Get at least two,” and somehow he ends up getting four).

MJ soaks the red beans in a bowl of water and tells him that she’ll be over again the next morning to teach him where to go once they’re well soaked.

“We’ve got time to kill before May gets home,” MJ says, puttering around the kitchen, “Want to practice your Spanish pronunciation?”

“Must I?” Peter asks.

“Would you like to?” MJ returns. She gives him that intense stare that makes him think instead of giving an instinctive answer. _Would_ he like to?

“Yes. Thanks, MJ.”

She kisses his forehead, “When you get tired we can watch Steven Universe.”

“Don’t dangle Steven Universe in front of me.”

“You know your limits better than me,” MJ sits cross legged on the floor, “Alright, let’s start with a simple conversation. Pretend I’m the shopkeeper and you want to buy some eggs. How do you start this conversation?”

__

Rio’s twenty minutes from finishing up her shift when Spider-man pops in through the door.

“Are you Mrs. Rio?” he asks, pulling off his mask, “Uh, Mr. Banner’s friend?”

“Yes,” Rio runs her fingers through her hair, “You here for help?”

“If you don’t mind terribly.”

“Alright,” she jerks her chin to the side, “Let’s have a look at it.”

Spider-man pulls his suit from his shoulder and reveals two bullet holes.

“I’m not a doctor,” Rio says, “Most nurses can’t even do suturing. If you want someone to fix that up, I can get a doctor on duty—“

“That’s fine,” Spider-man shakes his head, “I just need you to make sure nothing’s terribly infected since I pulled out the bullet wounds.”

“With _what_?”

“With some eyebrow tweezers.”

Oh god. Rio thinks she’s ready to have a heart attack, “That isn’t… that isn’t safe.”

“I’ve done it before.”

She has half a mind to shake some sense into this kid, “If I call a doctor—“

“I don’t know if I can trust them,” Spider-man interrupts her. He ducks his head down and gnaws on the inside of his cheek, “Sorry, I know it’s dumb. But I’d rather just—not get anyone else involved.”

And this isn’t in Rio’s job description. Checking on bullet wounds from the youngest Avenger. But what is she supposed to do? Leave him alone? So she gestures at a nearby seat and says, wearily, “Sit down, I’ll take a look.”

__

Peter’s head is foggy and the world is spinning and everything is just _too much, way too much_ —

“Hey, Peter?” May’s hand on his back _nonono,_ “Can you talk to me, to let me know you’re okay?”

“Go away,” Peter says, muffled into his pillow, and then, a bit louder, “Go away, please, May. Sorry. Please just—just go away.”

The hand moves away from his back and there’s the sound of his bedroom door sliding shut behind her, except not really because this is the Avengers Compound and his bedroom isn’t this _sleek_ and _silver_ and _nice_ and—

 _God_ , he can’t breathe.

Everything’s awful. He doesn’t know how or why, just that it is and it’s bad and he doesn’t want to be seen like this, doesn’t want to exist like this, in this perpetual state of numbed panic.

He hates this compound.

He shouldn’t—this compound was something he had only _dreamed_ of before. This compound was everything he wanted, it was—

It feels like he’s living in a metal cage. A big, fancy, metal cage.

 _God_.

How stupid is it, that every time Peter gets what he wants, he realizes that he doesn’t want it?

He wants May to come back.

He doesn’t want _anyone_ in here.

He wants May’s hand on his back, her voice telling him it’s going to be okay—

He wants to trust the world is real.

“Come on, Spider-man,” he whispers.

He doesn’t want to be Spider-man.

“Come _on_ , Spider-man.”

He’s tired of plowing through things. He doesn’t want to be a hero. He wants to be Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're doing a good job. Even if it doesn't feel like it. You're doing great.


	5. blurred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How we doing, kiddo?” May asks, pushing a cold water bottle against Peter’s face, smile soft as she leans over the back of the sofa.
> 
> “Good,” Peter says, tipping his head so it rests against the back of the sofa, surprised when he means it, “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, kiddos, your friendly reminder that you are not allowed past this point if you have not drank water in the past hour, stretched in the past half hour, or if it's past 10:00 pm in your country (unless you're not allowed to sleep for a valid reason). Now that's settled, those of you who pass the test, here's hoping you enjoy this chapter.

Somewhere between writing notes on the Applications of Quantum Mechanics and his equations from Newton’s first law, Peter’s head blurs.

It’s weird because had this been last week, Peter would have freaked. If this had been _yesterday_ , he’d have freaked. Would have collapsed in himself, like a neutron star too dense for its own good, swallowing himself into a black hole of weary panic.

Today, his head is clear. Today, he leans back, closes his eyes, breathes, and thinks _this will pass_. Weirder even, he believes it.

Everything had been—a lot. Way, way, a lot. MJ says that after the Avengers came back, Peter turned off fight-or-flight mode and let himself react, which was why everything went head-spinny and awful for so long.

Not that she thinks it’ll go away.

(“Might be PTSD,” she says, scrolling through her phone and scrunching up her nose.

“I don’t want PTSD,” Peter whispers, hugging his pillow into his chest, closing his eyes, “I want to be normal.”

She cards her fingers through his hair and says softly, “I’m not a professional,” which is her attempt at a comforting _I may be wrong_ , but she’s too proud to say it.

Peter leans into her touch and squeezes his eyes shut.)

He inhales for a second. The world outside is dark, the moon a scratched white circle against the sky, like chalk against a blackboard.

Peter closes his curtains. He wonders how long he’s been doing homework. He knows he took a few breaks—but also knows he did more than he’s done for a while. More than he’s done since his weird meltdown began.

His head is clear.

Peter inhales. Drinks some water. And does his homework.

He’s okay.

__

He watches _Big Fish_ with May. She likes it. He doesn’t.

“It’s because he was too perfect, right?” May asks, pressing a kiss to his hairline, “You never like the characters that are too perfect.”

“I just think there should be growth,” Peter says, “And there wasn’t any.”

“The son grew.”

“Why should the son have to grow? He just wanted to get to know his father better.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s blaming the child for something that’s nobody’s fault, is what it is.”

“It’s about the power of storytelling.”

“It’s about immortality.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“I don’t like immortality.”

“My bad. I forgot.”

Peter curls into May, pressing his face into her shoulder, closing his eyes, melting into the comfort as she rests her cheek on top of his head.

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we should go to sleep.”

“Maybe.”

“Alright, mister,” May laughs, poking his sides until he yelps and stands up to escape her tickling, “Let’s go brush our teeth, then off to bed.”

“Is that why you tortured me?” Peter demands, dramatic, pressing a hand to his chest, “To make me brush my teeth?”

“Yes,” May says, and laughing, the two of them go to the bathroom.

__

“Will you play hide and seek with me?” Morgan asks, resting her chin on Peter’s shoulder.

“I would love to,” Peter ruffles her hair, “I just need to finish my homework first, alright?”

“Why do you have so much?” Morgan demands, groaning as she rolls into his lap.

“Perks of being in 11th grade,” Peter smooths Morgan’s hair from her forehead, “Almost done, I promise. Just two more problems and we’re in the clear.”

“You could take a break,” Morgan suggests.

Peter smothers a laugh as he answers, “The less breaks I take, the sooner I finish.”

Morgan scrunches up her nose and groans dramatically, “But then who will play with me?”

“Isn’t your mom home?”

“She’s _napping_.”

“Ah, my bad. Why don’t you think about what we should play when I’m done?”

“Hide and seek! I _already_ know!”

“Okay, okay. Then why don’t you practice writing words or draw something?”

“You’re trying to trick me so that we play later instead of _now_.”

“Is it really tricking you if you’re aware of what I’m doing?”

“Yes. Because then I _think_ I’m aware and in control but really I’m just letting the wave swallow me!”

“Did your mom tell you that?”

“Yes. She says it’s a cor-por-ate strategy.”

“Do I look like a corporation to you?”

Morgan shrugs. She doesn’t know what a corporation even _is_.

Peter bites down a laugh and says, “One round. But then after that, you have to give me fifteen minutes to finish my homework.”

“ _Ugh_. That’s so _long_.”

“Well, that’s the deal.”

“Fine,” Morgan drags out the world like it physically pains her, “Two rounds?”

“One round,” Peter laughs, “Then _after_ I finish my homework, we can negotiate.”

“Fine,” Morgan slaps Peter, “You’re it! Count to a billion!”

Peter turns around and starts to count from twenty.

__

He keeps EDITH in a drawer. Some days he can’t look at it. Other days, he’d die before he let someone take those sunglasses off.

Peter doesn’t understand it. He’s not sure if anybody could—maybe MJ, but he doesn’t know if he can tell her.

Some days, Peter is so sure that everything is real. He feels dumb for ever doubting it. He thinks of fresh air, blue skies, and quiet, rainy mornings and Peter thinks that even if it weren’t real—isn’t it enough? Isn’t living like this, being alive, at peace, enough?

Other days, he feels himself slipping. Presses a kiss to May’s cheek and numbly wonders if it’s really her or just an illusion. And he puts the sunglasses on, those days, sits on one spot on his bed and doesn’t move, for fear that if he slips even one inch, he’ll fall into some abyss and crack himself open on cold cement.

It’s so stupid. It’s so—so stupid.

He can’t help it. He should, but he can’t. It’s wired—like electricity. Like if Peter does the wrong thing, takes the wrong step, the world will crumble and he’ll find out that he’s murdered everyone while being tricked by these illusions or something.

It’s so stupid.

“May,” he says, quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, sitting in the bathtub, feet against the cool side, trying to remember how to breathe, “ _May_ ,” and he doesn’t know if he can say it any louder, but she can’t _hear_ and how can she _not_ , he’s breathing so _loud_ — “ _May!_ ”

The sound of footsteps, the bathroom door opening, and Peter’s curled in the bathtub, eyes shut, because his eyes can’t trick him if he doesn’t see anything, and then there’s May, her arms pressed against his side, curled up tight in the bathtub with him, whispering, “It’s okay.”

She doesn’t tell him to breathe, because he’s breathing, he’s breathing _fine_ , he’s physically _fine_ , it’s not even a panic attack, it’s just—panic. Fear. Irrational—whatever this is.

Peter _can’t_.

“It’s okay,” May says, her arm around his shoulders, her lips against his temple, a steady promise, “It’s going to be okay, Peter. This will pass.”

 _It won’t_ , Peter thinks, _it hasn’t passed. Not since Mysterio. Not since Tony died. None of this is passing_.

He doesn’t say it. The words are trapped in his throat. He buries his face in May’s shoulder and tries not to cry.

__

“How we doing, kiddo?” May asks, pushing a cold water bottle against Peter’s face, smile soft as she leans over the back of the sofa.

“Good,” Peter says, tipping his head so it rests against the back of the sofa, surprised when he means it, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” May swings her legs over as Peter starts to drink the water, “You’re looking better.”

“Feeling better.”

She cards her fingers through his hair and says softly, “Let’s stay home today. Watch a movie or listen to music and do math.”

“I should patrol,” Peter says, closing his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Peter’s knuckles go white against the water bottle, “You packed my suit,” he says, and he doesn’t know why, why is he bringing this up now, so late, so long after, why— “When I went to Europe.”

“I’m sorry,” May says, softly, kissing his hairline, thumb rubbing circles into his forehead, gentle and comforting and Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel right now, because his words are confrontational but May is sorry and she’s comforting and all he can feel is tired.

“I know,” Peter says, “Just—I don’t know—“

“It was wrong of me to do that, and I won’t do it again,” May says, “And if I do, you tell me that you don’t want it. _Make_ me understand.”

Peter turns to her, presses his face against her leg, and says, “I liked being Spider-man,” and maybe that’s him excusing her, giving her a way out.

“But you don’t anymore,” and that’s May, saying _no, what I did wasn’t right, you have every right to be unhappy_ , because May, no matter what, always wants Peter to have the freedom of choice. And he loves that about her, but his head isn’t clear and he knows he’s supposed to be Spider-man and everything’s so jumbled and—

“I’m supposed to—“

“You’re supposed to do what’s best for you.”

“I’m better now.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t quit. Just because you can deal with something doesn’t mean you should.”

Peter inhales, shaky, and then sits up and drinks his water, “I’m heading out,” he says, because it always clears his head.

“Just a walk,” May says, “Don’t take the suit.”

Peter is tired and maybe—definitely—he doesn’t really want the suit and every string that comes with it, so he nods and leaves the suit behind as he steps into the sun.

__

The dream goes like this: a hand, on his side, large, the size of his chest, warm, comforting. Peter leans into the touch, the feeling of safety, and the hand presses tighter. Peter takes it to mean everything’s good and well, so he doesn’t notice when the touch turns tighter, tighter, and breaks through his ribcage, bones snapping like toothpicks.

Then Peter’s crumpled, on the floor, chest caved in, drowning in his own blood from inside out as it first bleeds into his lungs and then up, up through his throat, and he’s dead before the blood is coughed up through his lips.

So when the dream comes back, Peter is more wary. He knows what’s going to come. He leans away from the touch. Tries to run. Safety is bad. That warmth is bad.

So he tries to stand on his own. But by the time he’s standing, his ribs are poking from his skin, stark white for a moment before his blood comes bubbling out.

Peter can’t lean against the hand. But he can’t stand on his own, either.

So he dies every time.

And it’s like that with trust, Ned. Because he trusted the wrong person. Because he trusted Mysterio. He trusted what he thought was Fury. He trusted the adults, and he was wrong to do so. So now doesn’t know who to trust.

 _But if you don’t trust,_ Ned says softly, _if you stand on your own, you still die_.

Well, yeah. But it hurts more, when it’s someone you trusted that’s killing you.

 _You should quit. May says you’ve ben thinking about quitting_.

He can’t. He’s Spider-man. He can’t stop.

 _You want to stop_.

He can’t.

__

MJ draws on his arms, looping green vines around pink and purple roses, his wrist drowning in forget-me-nots, a sunflower curling about the crook of his elbow.

“You ever want flowers?” Peter asks.

“From you?” MJ sticks out her tongue, thinking, “No.”

“Just—ever.”

“Sure. A little cottage by the sea, a fenced in little square by the side, a little garden with my own vegetables and flowers growing in the corners. Isn’t that the dream?”

“It’s a nice dream. And there—you’ll be an artist? Paint all day and work business deals and model at the nearby University?” Peter knows the dream. MJ has told him a hundred times. He asks her to tell him again.

“Yeah. The smell of salt. A farmer’s market no more than two hours drive away, where I’ll go on Saturdays. Books, everywhere. Tons of random things from thrift stores or flea markets. A memory box, where I’ll keep the stubs of concert tickets where I never listened to the music before impulse buying them and going.”

“I like your dream.”

“I like yours, too. Has it changed?”

“I can’t remember,” Peter closes his eyes, inhales, “Remind me?”

“A little apartment in the middle of the city. A job at a scientific magazine of some sort, or at least somewhere close, preferably National Geographic. Succulents on the balcony. A roommate, someone who means a lot to you, a good friend. Lots of ugly blankets everywhere.”

“None of that’s changed.”

“…You wanted a peaceful, quiet life.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to try and get it?”

“Of course. I want it.”

“Right,” MJ draws a few more flowers in silence, seeming to debate speaking for a moment, before she asks, “And Spider-man?”

“Something else,” Peter says quietly. He can’t look at her, not when he feels like he’s in free fall without anything to catch him, “Ask me something else.”

“Okay. When you’re cooking, will your roommate cook with you?”

“Sometimes. Not often. We’ll have a chore chart, up on the fridge—“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of this chapter is sort of just saying it's okay, it's going to be okay, and obviously bad things are going to happen but if you remember that it's going to be okay in the end, it isn't as bad. And sometimes you need someone to remind you that things are going to okay, and that's awesome, too. So long as you realize that no thing can end your world, it's a bit easier to wait out the rough bits. Anyways, y'all better be sleeping well and hydrating, or else you weren't allowed to read this chapter and defying me may not be illegal but why would you do it. Why. Go to sleep. I'm begging you.


	6. what will be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He makes his way to May’s bedroom. Everything feels cold, clinical, but in a dizzying sort of way. Like when you’re in a hospital, and your vision blurs right before you collapse, all bright white and distant shouts.
> 
> “I think I’m having a panic attack,” he says, standing at May’s doorway, feeling like a ghost, strange and unsettled. He can’t think properly. All he can think about is how wrong this feels—how weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take your time. Take a step back. It's okay to do nothing--it's okay to not be productive--it's okay to just look out the window and zone out for an hour. Let your brain breathe. Let your body do what it needs to do. You know what it needs? Water, sleep and exercise. If you are sleep deprived, dehydrated, and/or have not exercised in the past 20 hours, go do that right now before reading this chapter. Take care of yourselves!

It’s 3am and _Bohemian Rhapsody_ is blaring at top volume.

“Dance with me, Peter,” Wanda says, skirt flared out, toes hovering bare inches above the coffee table, glowing soft red as she beams at him.

“It’s too late,” Peter says, smiling at her, watching her twirl and laugh to herself as they shout half-forgotten lyrics at the top of their lungs.

“Liar,” Wanda shouts, laughing as she holds out a hand, glowing bright pink around the edges, “Come _on_.”

“It’s too late,” Peter repeats, loud, laughing, even as he grabs her hand and twirls around, exhilaration catching in his lungs the way it hasn’t since the last time he went web-swinging.

Maybe it’s because it’s 3am and his brain is muddled and sleepy, maybe it’s just Wanda’s infectious grin, but Peter finds himself belting out the lyrics, screaming _I don’t wanna die, I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all_.

When they’re done that, _Dancing Queen_ comes on, so _obviously_ Peter has no choice but to sing along, and then one song turns into another and before they know it, the clock says 4:29am in neon green and they’re collapsed on the sofa, giggling and exhausted.

“We need to sleep,” Peter says, rolling on his stomach, running on adrenaline and the strange, bright lightness in his stomach that seemed to have become rarer after Mysterio.

“We should,” Wanda agrees, resting mid-air, bobbing lazily as like a surfer on water. Her voice indicates she’s not planning to.

“I’m exhausted,” Peter tries to convince himself.

“Mm.”

“…I want ice cream.”

“It’s snowing outside, Peter.”

“Are you saying I can’t have ice cream?”

“I’m saying we should have hot chocolate.”

“Oh, _yes_. What if I make spaghetti?”

“It’s—“ Wanda squints at the clock, “Oh, god. It’s 4:30.”

“Are you saying you don’t want spaghetti?”

“…Put in extra cheddar.”

“Put it in your own bowl. I’m eating swiss, like any reasonable person.”

“Disgusting,” Wanda declares, touching down, toes first, into the kitchen, fluttering around to make hot chocolate and heating the soy milk. She looks like something out of a Ghibli movie, floating around like a ghost. Sometimes Peter swears her feet don’t touch the ground.

“You say this to the person making spaghetti for you?” Peter demands, boiling the water and pulling out the sauce.

Wanda leans down to peck Peter on the cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Peter grumbles, “Do we have marshmallows?”

Wanda squints at an eggplant in the fridge and wiggles her fingers. Bright pink pineapple-shaped marshmallows appear in a ziplock bag in place of the eggplant.

“You have specific tastes,” Peter notes.

“I was aiming for those little hot chocolate marshmallows in a bag,” Wanda mumbles. She wiggles her fingers again and a bag of mini-marshmallows appears, just like in the grocery stores. “It just—requires some practice.”

“I miss the pineapples,” Peter teases her.

Wanda glares at him and wiggles her fingers threateningly.

Peter laughs and puts the spaghetti in the boiling water, “Do I get to request music?”

Wanda, humming, “It depends on your taste.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering, and then asks, hopeful, “ _Somebody to Love_?”

Wanda gasps and bounces up into the air. She doesn’t come down, flying over to her phone and saying, “ _Yes_.”

Queen comes on, a chorus wondering _can anybody find me somebody to love?_ And Peter is joining in, louder than he needs to be, Wanda, laughing as she opens the bag of magical marshmallows, and the two of them, at 4am, ridiculous and loud and young.

And Peter, despite everything, feels light as a feather.

__

Peter’s tired. He’s so tired.

He’s just—

It’s all just—

He doesn’t know how it happens. Or even, really, why it happens. It’s just—he’s Spider-man, on patrol, and one guy walks up to him, pats him on the back and says, “You’re doing great, Spider-man!”

And he has a breakdown.

Right there, in the middle of the street. He doesn’t know what happens—his vision blurs, he’s left fumbling, and he walks home mechanically with the distant understanding that May will make it better.

He wants to throw up.

He—

When he gets home, he barely remembers the walk back. May says _hello_ with her head poking out from her bedroom, he says _I’m home_ (since that’s what the Compound has become). It sounds horribly normal on his tongue. Like nothing’s wrong.

 _Peter’s_ wrong.

He must be broken, he feels put together wrong, he feels taut and weird in his skin, like he could start just tearing chunks off and—

 _Breathe_.

He makes his way to May’s bedroom. Everything feels cold, clinical, but in a dizzying sort of way. Like when you’re in a hospital, and your vision blurs right before you collapse, all bright white and distant shouts.

“I think I’m having a panic attack,” he says, standing at May’s doorway, feeling like a ghost, strange and unsettled. He can’t think properly. All he can think about is how wrong this feels—how weird.

He knows how to deal with panic attacks when he’s hyperventilating. Just breathe.

Right now, _just breathe_ , is not helping.

“Or—maybe not a panic attack,” he amends, “Just—I feel bad.”

Bad. It doesn’t fit—that’s not the right word for it. For this.

But it’s as close as Peter can put it into words.

“That’s okay,” May says. She pats the seat next to her, “Want to come sit?”

“Yes,” Peter manages. He sits next to her and folds forward. Her hands hover over him, like she’s not sure what to do, if it’s okay to touch him or not, so he takes the initiative and hugs her. She hugs back, warm and comforting and safe.

Peter closes his eyes and buries his face in her neck. He wonders if he’ll ever grow too old for this—if he’ll ever escape this feeling of May making everything okay. He doesn’t think he will.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” May says, and it shouldn’t be, but she’s here, so it is.

He nods into her neck, not trusting himself to speak, and feels a bit more grounded.

She runs her fingers through his hair, smoothing out the back of his head.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers.

“That’s okay,” she says, and holds him tight, “We’ll take a break, then, okay? We’ll take a break.”

He can’t.

He _can’t_.

He—

“Is that okay?” he asks, “Spider-man is supposed to be—“

“I don’t care about Spider-man,” she says, “I just care about you.”

He holds her tighter and cries.

__

“You don’t have to wash the dishes,” May says, pants rumpled and shirt half-tucked, half of her hair out of its bun as she lumbers about the kitchen, rearranging food and refrigerating leftovers. Peter squints at the clock, which reads 10:23 in unrepentant green.

“It’s okay,” he says, “It’s not that much work.”

He doesn’t say that it grounds him. That it keeps him—here. Real. He doesn’t tell her how the cold of the water against his fingers or the single-minded focus makes him feel more real. Less like he’s floating.

He’s not sure if she’ll understand, but more than that, he’s not sure if he can bring himself to say it out loud. Not sure if he can bring himself to be that vulnerable when it’s past his bedtime and he’s too tired to explain to May how everything has been feeling fuzzy and distant lately.

The kitchen tile is cold beneath his feet.

“I can do it,” May says, reaching for the cup in his hands, “You go rest or do your homework.”

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling away, smiling at her, “I’ve got it. You go rest. You had a long day.”

She shakes her head and kisses his forehead, “I’m eating a late night snack, anyway, so I can just wash it all later.”

“It’s fine, May. Really.”

She doesn’t try to read his face, doesn’t press. Just nods and grabs some tofu from the fridge and a spoon from the drawers.

Peter keeps washing while she heats up some leftovers in the microwave.

Part of him wants to tell her—something. Anything. Just talk to her, get it all out.

The rest of him feels too distant, too detached. Like the very act of speaking is a strange concept beyond his understanding—that’s the part of him that isn’t good. The part of him that feels unreal, untethered—like he’s a loose balloon, and nothing is holding him to earth save the cold of the tap water.

He turns off the water and puts more soap on the sponge.

May eats the tofu while the leftovers are heating. The microwave hums, and the plate spins round and round and round.

Peter finishes washing the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher to dry. He kisses May and mumbles _good night_ , not knowing how he’ll sleep that night. _Love you_ , he says, just so she doesn’t notice anything wrong. Tries to look as sleepy as possible, so she won’t question why he isn’t smiling.

She beams at him and kisses his cheek, “Love you, too, darling. Sleep well.”

He offers her a bright smile, “Yeah, of course. Don’t sleep too late.”

She winks at him and he shakes his head as he walks away, teasing each other, light, easy.

It feels natural but it also feels like an act. Peter doesn’t know if that makes sense or not. Doesn’t know if he _wants_ it to make sense or not.

He walks away, untethered, and slips into his bed without brushing his teeth.

 _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself, _it’ll all be okay_.

__

When Peter stumbles into the Aca-Dec room, _Somebody to Love_ is playing on the piano in striking chords and harsh accompaniment.

“Loser,” MJ whispers, hitting her phone against his ankle as he crouches down to kiss her forehead, “Stay quiet.”

Peter furrows his brow and squints at the piano. Flash is going through _Somebody to Love_ from memory, fingers light and jaw set. Ah.

“Do you know what’s up with him?”

Flash only plays the piano when he’s in a Mood.

A shrug, “How would I know? He only talks to Cindy when he’s like this.”

And there’s Cindy, sitting down next to Flash on the piano bench, singing along mostly in tune, _very_ passionately, _can anybody FIND ME—somebody—to—looooove_?

When Flash finishes playing, Cindy punches him in the arm and they lean their heads together like conspirators. Cindy whispers to Flash quietly, under her breath, and Flash doesn’t say anything, just scowls at her and shakes his head every once in a while. Cindy looks frustrated, and Flash looks more and more upset.

“Why do I need them when I have you?” Flash finally shouts, standing up and stepping back.

“Because we’re not the only people in the fucking universe!” Cindy shouts back, picks up her backpack, and storms over to MJ. She crosses her arms over her chest and puts her head on MJ’s shoulder, carefully, like if she puts her chin down too fast her skull will shatter. “Ugh.”

MJ absent-mindedly pats Cindy’s head.

“You alright?” Peter asks cautiously.

“Fine,” Cindy mutters, “Just fine. I’m just—ugh. I wish Flash wasn’t such an _asshole_ ,” she raises her voice at that last part, and when Flash looks over, sticks her middle finger up.

Flash scowls at Cindy, sits down, and starts playing a song that Peter doesn’t recognize.

“He wants to know how you’re doing,” Cindy says to Peter, quietly, “Fame is tough.”

Peter shoots Cindy a confused glance, “Flash doesn’t care about me.”

She shrugs.

“Is this because I’m—“ Peter clears his throat, “You know?”

“You can say Spider-man,” Cindy says, amused, “The whole world knows.”

“Yeah, I just,” Peter closes his eyes, feeling off-balance and off-kilter, “Yeah. Yeah. I just—you know?”

Cindy nods. She closes her eyes for exactly six seconds, and the sits up straight, like she’s been shot, and bounces onto her feet, “Okay, fucker!” she yells at Flash, “He’s overwhelmed!”

The piano playing stops.

Flash slowly, delicately, closes the piano, smoothing the cover before closing it and gently pushing in the piano bench.

Then he storms over to their little group and turns to Peter.

“It’ll get better,” he says, voice sharp, “Do you want to let it die or do you want to take control of the narrative?”

“I—what?”

“If you start a youtube channel, you’ll get a lot of followers. You’ll be able to control how Spider-man is perceived—to an extent. Mostly to the younger audience, but that’s where the only open-minded people who care are. That comes with it’s own pros and cons but whatever. Or you could just let it die and do nothing, like you’re doing right now. But you’re overwhelmed. So.”

“I— _what_?”

“Your public image,” Flash snaps his fingers twice, “What are you going to do about it, Penis?”

“I—I’m letting the Avengers handle it.”

“The Avengers are handling shit. There are accusations of you being a child soldier or some shit being brought up. Some people think you’re a fucking lab experiment.”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Yeah. Oh your god. Listen—I barely care about you. I don’t even want to associate with you. But if your public image is something stressing you out—“

“It is _now_.”

“—Well, that’s something I can help with,” Flash shuffles a bit, and then whips around, about to march off.

“Wait,” Peter says, quietly.

Flash stops. He doesn’t turn around. His hands are shaking. Or maybe it’s just Peter’s vision that’s shaking—both are possible.

“Why—why do you like Spider-man?”

“Because you do good things, even when other people don’t,” Flash scuffs his heel against the floor, “Because you put on a suit to become some big superhero and decide to give an old lady directions. Because you don’t take advantage of your power—you just try to be the best person you can. It’s—fuck—“ Flash runs his fingers through his hair and turns around, “It’s inspiring, okay? It makes me want to be less of a dick.”

“And if Spider-man disappeared?”

“You planning to off yourself?”

“Just—maybe take a hiatus?”

“Whatever. Doesn’t change who you are,” Flash shoves his hands in his pockets, “Listen, Penis— _Parker_ —listen, Parker, you don’t really care about my opinion. I’m not one of your friends or anything. Just—trust yourself.”

Peter looks at his hands.

 _Doesn’t change who you are_.

Who is he? It’s been blurred with all the panic attacks and uncertainty.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Trust yourself? Which part? The doubt? The fear? The part that wants to run and stop being Spider-man? The one that wants to stay? The one that feels like he _has_ to stay?

How does he trust himself?

MJ pats his hand and whispers, “It’ll be okay.”

Yeah.

Okay.

“Okay?” Peter whispers.

“Yeah. It’ll be okay. Even if everything falls about—so long as you’re still around to pick up the pieces.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying everything’s really overwhelming right now, and that’s alright.”

“Okay,” Peter buries his face in the crook of her neck, “Okay.”

And maybe it isn’t right now, but it will be.

It will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be totally clear, Peter is _not_ feeling suicidal. He's just overwhelmed and traumatized and wants to quit being Spidey, that's it. Take care of yourselves, and I'll see you... hm, hopefully before the summer?


	7. choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to shut down but May’s here and Pepper’s here and he can’t let them see—
> 
> Pepper must understand anyway, somehow, because there are hands wrapping around his hands and she slowly pulls him down until he’s sitting on the floor and she says, “Close your eyes and put your head on your knees,” and he does and shuts out the world and breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, kiddos, hope y'all are taking good care of yourselves still? Drink your water, stretch a bit, and make sure you've eaten solid food in the past hour before you read this, okay? This chapter's a bit heavy, but it's a step towards a happy ending, so hopefully it's okay. Warning for panic attacks, dissociation, Peter generally being way too hard on himself.

He’s standing beside Bruce Banner— _the_ Bruce Banner, albeit in Hulk form—holding up a fallen train from some sort of explosion while War Machine takes care of evacuations, and Hulk says, “I can handle this, you know. You can go help with evacuation.”

Peter looks up at the train, the creaking metal and the bright light, and says, quietly, “Best not risk it.”

“Listen, kid, I’m the Hulk. I got this.”

Peter looks at the train, at the people tentatively climbing out and into safety, and says, “If you’re worried about the train crushing me, don’t. I got hit by a train once.”

“I— _what_?”

“Never mind,” Peter mumbles. Why did he say that? That was so stupid. So ridiculously stupid, “Anyways, I’m really strong. I got this.”

“I got this, too,” Hulk says, “So you—you don’t worry, okay? That being hit by a train—it’ll be a one-time thing, for sure.”

Peter doesn’t think so. In fact, he highly doubts it, “Thanks,” he says, anyways, and tries to muster up a smile.

The rest of the rescue is smooth as butter.

Peter thinks he might be having a panic attack.

__

“I want to quit,” Peter blurts out as soon as he gets home, throwing his backpack in the closet and locking the door behind him.

“Quit what?”

Oh no.

Oooh noooo.

That’s Pepper.

Pepper Potts.

Pepper-married-to-Tony-Stark-Potts.

“Hi, Peter,” May says, waving from where she’s curled up on the couch across from Pepper, “Tony’s looking after Morgan today, so Pepper came over for a chat.”

And Peter wants so badly to just. Be selfish. Wants to ask Pepper to leave so he can curl up in May’s lap and ignore the outside world and knows he could, one word and he _could_ , he—

“Nothing,” Peter mumbles.

Pepper glances at May, who’s giving Peter that worried mom look, he knows without even having to look at her, and Pepper says, “Well, I think that Tony and Morgan have had apt time to think about how to destroy our house, it might be best if—“

“It’s okay,” Peter says, “You stay. It can—it can wait.”

“We were just about done anyways,” May says, leaning over to Pepper, and pressing a hand to her shoulder, smiling softly.

And Peter doesn’t know what he’s _doing_ , but he blurts out, like an _idiot_ , “Spider-man. I want to—I want to quit being Spider-man.”

And Pepper says, easy as that, “Okay. You do that.”

Peter stares at his feet, and mumbles, “Don’t tell Mr. Stark?”

“Of course not,” Pepper agrees, easy as pie, “Should I stay, then?”

Peter shrugs. His chest feels tight, like everything that’s been building up is exploding all at once and his head is just stuffed full with thoughts bouncing everywhere and—

He wants to shut down but May’s here and Pepper’s here and he can’t let them _see_ —

Pepper must understand anyway, somehow, because there are hands wrapping around his hands and she slowly pulls him down until he’s sitting on the floor and she says, “Close your eyes and put your head on your knees,” and he does and shuts out the world and _breathes_.

Pepper says something out loud to May, distant and far away, and the words register but he doesn’t try to process them because he’s pulling into his head and closing in and then there’s an arm around him and May tucks her chin on his forehead.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Peter folded into himself, May with her arms wrapped around him but eventually May pulls back and asks, “You want some tea, kiddo? Pepper made chamomile.”

And Peter, when he unfurls, pulls back out of his head, somehow feels good enough to ask, “Can I put honey in?”

“Yeah,” May kisses his forehead, “Of course, kiddo.”

So that’s how they end up, Peter and Pepper curled up on the couch, May perched on the edge of the coffee table, a mug of tea in Peter’s hand as he tries to pull together the right words, the ones that won’t make them worried but will still make them _understand_.

And then Pepper’s hand is on his knee and she says, “You don’t have to say anything, okay? You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Feelings and expressing everything takes time. You can just finish your tea, and I’ll wait for you to be ready, okay? I won’t talk about this with anyone else if you don’t want me to.”

And Peter says, quietly, “Is it okay if I talk about it, though?”

“Always,” Pepper reassures him, and wraps both hands around her mug as she sips her tea.

Peter nods and doesn’t speak, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say, and then, he mumbles, “I feel like I’m being selfish.”

“Nothing wrong with being selfish.”

“Oh. But—“

“Thing wrong with it,” Pepper repeats, “Tony retired. Do you think he was wrong to do so?”

Peter shakes his head, “No, of course not—“

“Then what’s different about you?”

Peter stares at his tea and blinks and tries to think of a reason that isn’t just _because it’s_ me _,_ “I feel like I’m just quitting. Because it’s too hard.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay to step away from things that hurt us.”

“It’s not—it’s _Spider-man_. I’m helping people, I—“ Peter puts down his tea. His head is static.

“It’s okay,” May says quietly.

“I don’t want to be Spider-man,” Peter mumbles, “Doesn’t that make me a bad person?”

“Never,” May tucks a curl behind his ear, “Never, Peter.”

She wraps her arms around him and he hugs her back and breathes and—

“I want to be normal,” Peter says.

“Then you can quit,” May says, “Go ahead. I’ll deal with anyone who objects. You do what’s best for you, and we’ll be your backup.”

“What if—what if this is the wrong decision?” Peter asks, pressing his face against her collar and thinking _whatifIscrewupwhatifI’mafailurewhatifwhatifwhatif_ until his vision blurs and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Things are rarely so black and white as right or wrong decisions, kiddo,” May says, “There’s no perfect answer. No matter what you do, one little choice won’t save the world. It won’t condemn it, either. You don’t have that much power in your hands. Don’t worry about what-ifs. Think about what’s best for you right now—just you, okay? Be a little selfish. Take it slow. What’s best for you, right now?”

And Peter—he loved being Spider-man. He loved web-slinging, it was practically flying. He loved—

Past tense.

“I want to quit,” he says, and his heart is in his throat and everything is _panicpanicpanic_ and when he says that out loud he thinks that he’ll regret it but he just feels lost and overwhelmed.

He doesn’t feel regret but he doesn’t feel relief, either, what does that mean?

What does—

“I want to be good, though,” he says, out loud, because May will understand, May always understands—

“You are,” May says, “You’re so, so good. And even if you weren’t—you do not have to be good, okay? You don’t. Just stay alive, that’s enough. That’s more than enough for me, okay?”

And she’s holding him and he’s crying and he’s not Spider-man, he’s just Peter Parker, and he doesn’t know what this means but finally, something like relief comes.

__

“It was a good decision,” Tony says, quietly, over ice cream, the two of them perched on Tony’s rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, “I know it must’ve been hard. I’m so proud of you, kiddo.”

“I thought—I was worried that I’d disappoint you,” Peter mumbles, “You called me the next Iron Man.”

“My bad,” Tony hums, “You, specifically, weren’t the next Iron Man. I made EDITH I think—before I even met you. It was a vague sort of you, as a contingency,” he looks at his hands, “I had a lot of those. In hindsight—well. Hindsight’s always 20-20. I shouldn’t have given it to you.”

And Peter wants to say _it’s okay_ , say _I would’ve been alright_ , but all that he can think is _too much. It was too much_.

And he knows that Tony doesn’t mean it in a condescending way—that Tony didn’t mean it to reflect poorly on Peter at all—it just was.

“Some days I think this isn’t real,” Peter confesses. He thinks of a screech of metal, his own distant pain, bloodied fingers desperately gripping a train— “Some days I think it’s all just—an illusion. That I’m not—that this isn’t—“ his fingers reach out to empty air, and he pulls them back, shaking his head. “Stupid, isn’t it? I know, that this is solid, that you’re,” he holds Tony’s hand, “Solid. That you’re—at least—a person—“

Why is his head freaking out? Why is he freaking out?

 _Shut up, Peter_.

“That’s okay, kiddo,” Tony whispers, and he pulls Peter into his shoulder, “That’s okay, but this is real, okay? This is reality. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. You can live a normal life—“

That’s what Peter wanted, wasn’t it? _Selfish, selfish, selfish—_

Mysterio said it was okay.

Mysterio said that Peter was okay—

Nobody else did.

Tony Stark is talking but all Peter can hear is Mysterio.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to manipulate him. Because Peter was being childish and stupid, and all he wanted to hear were words that no sensible adult would say—

“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay? Not even yourself,” and there’s something in Tony’s voice that makes Peter thinks he understands, he gets it, how everything hurts and builds and how Peter feels alone sometimes like if he takes the wrong step the world will crumble beneath him—

What does he say?

What can Peter say?

“I feel like this is too good,” Peter whispers into Tony’s shoulder, “I feel like—like something this real _can’t_ be good—like I would’ve messed up or something worse is going to happen or somehow I’m screwing everything up—“

“You aren’t,” Tony says, “You aren’t. You don’t have that much power, okay? You can’t—you can’t do that. Not if it isn’t on purpose. Nobody can just—unintentionally screw everything up. Believe me, I used to—you know who I used to be. You’re okay. You’re _good_ —I’ve told you before—good in ways I can’t be. That I can only imagine being.”

And Peter thinks that must be a lie. Must be, because he’s so selfish and this is wrong and he—

“Okay,” he says, voice small, because he wants to believe that he so so desperately wants to believe that.

“Okay,” Tony says, and Peter thinks that Tony knows that Peter doesn’t really believe it, but he’s said that, out loud, and maybe—maybe it can be okay.

Maybe it will be okay.

If this isn’t real, at least it’s kind.

Mysterio wouldn’t give him a kind illusion—he wouldn’t. So maybe it’s real.

Probably it’s real.

Tony told him something that only Tony knew. Mysterio couldn’t have know it.

So this is real.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers, wrapping his arms around Tony.

“For what?”

“For letting me just—give up. And not telling me that I’m a failure for it.”

“You aren’t. You aren’t a failure. You aren’t bad. You aren’t any of those things, okay, kiddo? You just—you’re human. That’s not bad, that’s—you’re making the right choice, if this is what you want. It is, right? If you don’t want to do something, you don’t have to do it.”

Peter’s chest is tight. He thinks it might be hard to breathe.

His head goes _no this is wrong you have to power through you have to stay as Spider-man—_

“I want to be normal,” he says, “I want to live a normal life.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get,” Tony promises.

And this isn’t—Peter doesn’t know if this is the right choice. If there even is such a thing as the right choice. Maybe May’s right. Maybe everything just exists—and there’s no black and white, right or wrong. Only choices.

 _Normal_. Peter wants that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, that was a lot, huh? Remember that your emotions don't have to be "right". Like in this chapter, emotions are sometimes just how your brain reacts to things, and that's okay! Sometimes it's right, sometimes it's a lil off, either way, your emotions are totally valid. You don't have to act according to how you feel, yeah? You're doing good.

**Author's Note:**

> My [ tumblr](http://quilliumwrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
